


kettles

by laedymoonarchive



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:21:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26264140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laedymoonarchive/pseuds/laedymoonarchive
Summary: --- this is a repost of a fic originally published on my tumblr. i no longer use it and am slowly getting rid of my posts, so everything i've written is being archived here ---summary: it's angry sexwarnings: angst, roger being a general prick, smut 18+; unprotected sex, consensual hate fucking multiple orgasms, a little dom/sub dynamics, flatmates (who hate each other) to loverswordcount: 3.4kps it’s a stupid title, i’m aware. pps, i made up a lot of words in this fic
Relationships: Roger Taylor (Queen)/Reader
Kudos: 9





	kettles

**Author's Note:**

> \--- this is a repost of a fic originally published on my tumblr. i no longer use it and am slowly getting rid of my posts, so everything i've written is being archived here ---
> 
> summary: it's angry sex
> 
> warnings: angst, roger being a general prick, smut 18+; unprotected sex, consensual hate fucking multiple orgasms, a little dom/sub dynamics, flatmates (who hate each other) to lovers
> 
> wordcount: 3.4k
> 
> ps it’s a stupid title, i’m aware. pps, i made up a lot of words in this fic

there are a lot of things that make it hard for you to sleep.

full mooned nights when the light streams in directly onto your pillow, and curtains are a luxury that dirt poor arts students can’t afford.

the purr of the rickety old heater you keep by your bed because you’ve always been decidedly cold blooded.

the persistent hooting of that owl who’s made its home in the tree just outside your window - kind of cute, but also wholly impractical. 

all those things, they’re fairly tolerable - minor disturbances. you can deal with those. the one thing you won’t tolerate, however, when it’s twelve am and you’re trying to achieve some much needed shut eye, is your prick of a flat mate banging his drums like they’re that bird he was shagging well into the wee hours of yesterday morning. not that you’re too happy about that, either.

you shouldn’t be surprised, really. drumming’s not an uncommon occurrence in your flat, nor are the staccato bangs of roger’s bed frame rutting against your shared wall. the giggles and squeals of the half drunk girls he brings home have woken you up half a dozen times too, although not nearly as often as the cries of outrage when they discover that, _surprise_ , he’s been seeing another at the same time.

you’re sick of the lot of it. the situation - the two of you together - was supposed to be temporary. you both needed a flatmate, he had a spare room. and now you’ve been stuck with him - his whole self indulgent, wannabe rockstar act for months. it’s pathetic, childish, down right ridiculous. and you’re going to fucking tell him as much.

“roger!” you growl. you push yourself out of bed, slightly bleary eyed as you stumble into the hallway.

no answer, even as you burst through his door. his head is bowed, shaking his blonde hair in that way that girls seem to go ape-shit for while he bangs incessantly on his drums.

“roger.”

he holds a drum stick up to you, _hold on._

“fucks sake, roger, it’s two am.”

he gives his cymbals a good smash and finally sets his sticks down. his chest is sheened with sweat, cheeks pink from exertion. “what do you want?”

“i was requesting, kindly, that you shut the fuck up.”

“language, love.”

 _prick_.

“just keep it down, yeah? and while you’re at it, could you maybe have your next quick shag in the pub bathroom so i don’t have to hear her fakin’ her orgasm?”

roger looks taken aback, albeit only for a split second. “nothin’ fake about it.”

“as long as i don’t have to hear it, i don’t care.” you close his door behind you. hopefully he’ll shut up now, but even if he doesn’t, you’re too wide awake to get back into bed. you shuffle over the kitchen and fill the kettle, sliding it onto the stove.

“make me one, would you?” roger emerges from his room. he’s got a shirt on, at least.

you scoff. “make it your bloody self.”

“not very hospitable, are you?” he folds his elbows underneath him on the bench.

“not at two am, no.”

“speaking of, you might want to spend the next few nights at fred and bri’s.”

you’re holding back an eye roll before he’s even finished speaking. “and why’s that?”

“big week comin’ up.” roger smirks. “lotsa gigs.” he _did not just fucking wink_ at you. give you that knowing look as if you’re _one of the dudes_ who’s supposed to accommodate and praise his shagging around.

_he’s got to be fucking kidding._

“i’ll be sleeping here.” you muster your most sarcastic smile, though your blood is positively boiling. “you’ll be sleeping at the flat of whatever _lucky lady_ you manage to charm into taking you home.”

“lucky indeed. not to make you jealous, love.”

the kettle squeals, steam erupting from its spout. _how perfect_ , you think. _a lovely metaphor for your emotions at this exact moment._

“oo, please don’t rog.” you simper as you grab the kettle off the stove, water sloshing onto the tiles. “how i bloody _wish_ i was one of those chicks you’ve delighted on that piss stained mattress of yours.”

“least they’re getting _delighted_ by someone.”

you can feel him getting under your skin. cheeks getting redder with every minutes he’s looking at you with that fucking smarmy-faced grimace.

“oh, get fucked roger.”

“i am. unlike you, love.”

you slam the mug you’d pulled out of the drawer against the counter. “for your fucking information, rog, i’ve got no issues with your sleeping around.”

roger scoffs.

“what i’ve got an issue with, is you. because you’re a _prick_ , and all you care about is your fucking self.” you’re walking around the bench now, closer to him. “not me - which isn’t unexpected. can’t say i give much of a toss for you either. don’t think you’ve ever learnt the names of any girl you’ve ever fucked - which, again, is no fucking surprise. but you couldn’t give two shits about brian, either. or freddie, or john.”

“fuck off, yeah?” roger growls. “you’re right about you - couldn’t give a toss. but i care about my fucking friends.”

“do you, rog? cause didn’t quite seem like it that time you pissed off at brian’s birthday do cause the waitress was _so hot_ and you just had to take her home.” you can feel the air around you reeling. tighter and tenser and more rigid with every word you spout. “or when you got pissed out of your head just before that gig at the tristander. or how about when-”

roger cuts you off, slamming a fist on the counter, eyes dark and steely and fierce. “fucking _enough_.”

and then comes the pause. where everything comes to a grinding halt and it’s just the _two of you_. breathing ragged, nails dug into palms, that vein in roger’s neck so languid you could trace it with your finger. around you it’s hot - hot and _still_. and you both just know that the only way forward from where you are - so torn up and coiled with frustration - is to close the gap between you.

and it’s like something out of a bloody movie. you grab his shirt in aggressive fists, his hands are bruising at your jaw. they drop to your hips, lips never leaving yours, and tug your legs to his waist, everything urgent and rough and rushed.

there’s no time to think when you’re ripping his shirt over his head and running your nails down his chest. no time to think when he’s carrying you to the kitchen table. no time to think, ‘ _what the fuck are you doing?_ ’, when you’re dropped unceremoniously to the harsh wood and he’s tearing your shorts down your legs.

“this okay?” the harshness abates from his voice just a bit.

you nod. “i’ll tell you to fuck off if it’s not.”

with your confirmation, whatever tenderness existed temporarily is gone and the desperate, furious urgency returns.

roger’s muttering while he gets his cock out and you do away with your knickers - something about _he’s so fucking pissed_ and _you’re both such fucking idiots_ as he gives the shaft a pump with his fist.

“hurry the fuck up, would you?” you spit, still angry but not quite sure why. all you see is red - blurry, hot, furious tension between you and him.

“that kinda attitude isn’t gonna get you fucked love.” roger’s voice drips with more sarcasm than freddie’s when he’s critiquing the outfits of passers by after a few shots at the bar.

you squirm in frustration and anticipation. “please?” you snarl, voice equally satirical.

roger chuckles slightly, though his eyes are still clouded. “think i like it when you beg for me.” at that he bucks inside of you, finally, his pace immediately fast and immediately harsh.

if you’d been on the other side of the wall for this bullshit, you wouldn’t have been able to hear yourself think, let alone sleep. this, _now_ , it’s not the melodic (albeit irritating) ruts of his bed frame against the wall. it’s not measured moans and gentle cries.

this, _now_ , is intense. every movement - the arch of your back, the rut of roger’s hips - is rough and exaggerated. it’s far from melodic; a song with an ever changing beat. there’s no discernible rhyme or reason to the way roger’s pounding into you, hands gripping your breasts then your hips, fleetingly trailing over your arse then twisting at your clit. the asynchronousity of the whole thing is driving you wild, keeping you teetering on the edge when you feel as though you’re just about to collapse over.

 _fuck, roger_. is all you seem to be able to articulate, over and over and over again.

he’s the first to finish, something you’d probably lord over him were your eyes not currently rolling back with pleasure. besides, you’re not far behind - clenching your walls around his cock just as he’s finished painting them with his cum. yours hits you hard, making you cry out as you arch your back and claw at roger’s chest.

he fucks you slowly as it abates, leaving behind a void that’s very quickly filled with whatever pissy-ness and anger existed before.

you slap his chest lightly. “get off.”

roger hurries to pull out of you and tuck his cock back into his jeans. “are you alright?” it’s so awkward. _stilted_.

“mmm.” you nod. _where the fuck are your underwear?_ “just..” _toss it. you can find them tomorrow. just get the fuck out of here. “_ tired. i’m going to..” you point behind you, to the sanctuary of your bedroom.

“sure,” roger says. he scratches the back of his neck, lean muscles flexing in his arm. it’s frustratingly sexy in an ineffable sort of way you’ve never let yourself appreciate before. “goodnight.”

at that, you retreat, shutting your door behind you and hearing roger’s click shut only a second later. you can imagine him, pacing on his side of the wall. probably drumming his fingers on his thigh, twirling a strand of blonde hair around his pinky in the way that- _stop fucking thinking about him_.

what you just did, that was incredibly fucking idiotic. and the way you feel now? how you can’t clear your brain of him with sulture darkened eyes and mussed hair and lips dropped into an _o_ above you? even more so.

he’s _roger_. your flatmate, who, while being undeniably attractive in a way that only adds to his vexatiousness, is the bane of your bloody existence. roger who leaves dishes everywhere, who you vent about to brian over the phone. who never buys groceries, who loves to wind you up just for the fucking fun of it.

you hate roger. you _despise_ him.

 _he’s not_ roger with the pretty hair. roger with the soft skin and tanned chest. roger with the sexy voice. roger who’s really fucking good at making you cum. roger who you really, really want to fuck again.

no, never. he’s your flatmate. who you hate. simple as that.

———–

but it’s _not_. as much as you’ve tried to convince yourself over the past week that friday night’s clandestine encounter was nothing more than a blip on your steady record of mutual hate, it’s just not the fucking case.

the few days after you’d slipped into a lovely little routine of dysfunction: you’d leave before roger awoke in the morning and he’d be out until well after you were asleep. no contact, no need for you to discuss what happened, leaving you to mull it over on your own to the point of driving yourself insane.

the fight and what followed seemed, for you at least, to be the release of something you’ve bottled up and pushed down for a long while. not just the frustration and resentment you’ve held against him since the first time you returned home to find a naked girl asleep in _your bed_ , but something else. something _deeper_. some psychological bullshit you don’t want to attempt to understand.

wanting. attraction. sexual tension. desires you’ve repressed because he’s fucking _roger_ and you won’t become another name on his list. _you_ don’t like those kinds of guys. _you_ deserve better.

it’s kept you up in a way that’s starting to show. dark circles and glassy eyes, a result of nights spent wondering why on god’s green earth you’ve found yourself inexplicably attracted to him. debauched, self-indulgent, king of the quick shag roger. it’s infuriating more than anything else. infuriating and confusing.

and now here you are, left with all your _wanting_ and all your _desire_ dug up from their graves, while he’s silent on the other side of the wall.

you hate to find yourself missing the usual disturbance that comes from roger’s room in the wee hours of the morning, but really, you’d rejoice in something to cover the awful emptiness. it’s thick and heavy. louder than the ruckus it’s replacing.

and really, it’s stupid. you’re both adults, aren’t you? and yet, anything even resembling a sensible conversation about the events of the past few days feels unconscionable. but you have to do something. because the utter nothing-ness is too much. you can’t sleep while he’s _there_ and he’s _silent_.

 _what are you actually going to bloody do?_ you berate yourself as you get out of bed.

 _burst in and demand he fuck you again? as if that’s going to make the situation any less twisted._ you’re at his door now. christ, your fist is moving to knock.

 _just tell him you want to talk. simple as that._ you’re knocking.

_but what if he’s moved on? what if it was a purely quick shag for him? nothing more, nothing les-_

“yeah?”

 _fuck. here goes nothing_.

“roger?” he’s sat on his bed, battered old twelve string in hand. you hadn’t heard him playing.

“yeah?” he repeats. his tone is excruciatingly hard to read. not carrying its usual smarminess, not quite warm and friendly. he sets down the guitar.

“i uh..” _here’s the part where you should’ve thought about what the fuck you’re actually doing._ you twist your hands behind your back.

“you what?” roger says, tone flat, face blank. save for those big, blue eyes he keeps blinking at you. long and slow and deliberate.

fuck. _fuck_ , he’s so gorgeous and it’s completely unfair. you may as well just come out with it. the two of you have already crossed some sort of line. where’s the harm in going a little further? 

“i uh..” you clear your throat. “i want you to fuck me. again.”

you were expecting a little reaction. a mouth dropped open. eyes widened. an _“are you serious”,_ perhaps, thrown in for good measure. roger gives you nothing - non-responsive to the point you’re worried that he hasn’t even heard you.

“that’s what you came in here to tell me?” he finally says, just as you’re about to check he’s still with you.

you nod.

roger tilts his head back in a slight chuckle, exposing the faded, purple bruises stamping the column of his throat. _something, finally._ “why am i not surprised?”

your cheeks flush a little. “look, roger, if you’re going to be a prick about it i’m perfectly happy to go and do it my fucking self.”

“don’t be silly, love. not gonna leave you not-taken care of. specially not when you’re begging for it like that.”

you concede a little, taking a step towards him. “was hardly begging, rog.”

“you will be. sit.” he pats his thigh.

 _fuck off,_ the part of you that’s still pissed at him wants to say. you listen to another part - the horny part - instead.

you straddle his lap, breath hitching slightly as his hands explore your thighs. this is different. slower, softer, more intimate than last time, though still miles away from affectionate.

“you wet, baby?” he slips into your underwear and circles your clit with his calloused finger.

“mm, fuck, please keep going.” your eyelids flutter, head tilted back as roger attaches his lips to your exposed neck, stamping it to match his own.

“haven’t stopped thinking about you since the other night, love.” he pulls away and begins to tug your shirt over your head, chuckling when you roll your hips against his crotch with a whine. “how you looked beneath me. all fucked out and lovely.”

“ _christ_ , roger.”

“and that cunt of yours.” he pulls your knickers as far as they’ll go, coaxes your legs further apart with a tap. “so fucking tight.”

he pulls you onto his cock slowly, letting you roll your hips against his a few times before taking them in his hands. “how do you want my cock, darlin’?”

you shake your head, incoherent for the pressure mounting in your abdomen.

“want to ride my cock? you feel so fucking good like this, so deep. or do you want me to take you from behind? bend you over this bed like a slut and fuck you like you asked me to?”

you don’t really have to speak - roger takes your clenching around him at the suggestion as an answer in itself. he takes you at the waist to turn you around, bracing your palms on the mattress. he’s pressed right up behind you. so warm and so fucking hard against your dripping core.

“too much, don’t hesitate to stop me, yeah?” he whispers.

“course,” you reply, still breathless.

“good girl.” roger slides back into you with a groan. “feels so good, baby. gonna make you feel good too.”

“ _please_.”

 _this_. this is more like the first time. hot and harsh and loud. you didn’t even realise you were making so much noise until roger murmurs in your ear how “ _fucking_ _hard your moans are making him_.”

you amp it up, moans tumbling into borderline-screams as he brings a hand down over your arse. it’s hardly disingenuous, yet utterly pornographic. you’re overcome with the sensations of him - hands on your arse, burying himself to the hilt inside you.

the steady, slow build up of your orgasm is forgotten at that - you finish over roger’s cock, clenching the bedsheets until your knuckles pale as white, hot pleasure rips through your abdomen.

“good fuckin’ girl,” roger grunts. “think you can do it again for me, love?”

you nod, cheeks flushed dark as roger fucks you through your orgasm. your legs are shaking, you can feel his thrusts becoming slightly more incoherent behind you, but he holds off.

with one hand on your back, the other reaching around to toy with your clit, roger has you cumming for a second time in a matter of minutes. you clench around him with a cry, his pretty moans from behind you spurring you on.

he drops a string of whispered curses in your ear as he cums while you do; cock pumping ropes of his seed onto your walls and over your bum. you let your arms buckle when he’s stopped moving, falling forward on the bed while roger pulls out. he drops next to you and you shuffle to make room, both of you far too fucked out to care about the mess.

“jesus _fucking_ christ.” you pant.

you can feel him grin next to you. “you’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

“can’t really blame all those girls for being so loud anymore, can i?”

roger snorts. “yeah, sorry about that.”

“sure.”

“nah, really.” he turns his head to face you. “i know i’m a prick most of the time.”

“that’s true.” you slap him lightly on the arm.

“funny thing is, i know i’m being a dick when i’m being a dick. always say to myself: _roger, you’re acting like a complete twat right now._ but it doesn’t seem to stop me from doing it.”

it’s the most profound thing you’ve ever heard him say. to hear him talk so bloody eloquently is quite the head spin.

“‘m sorry too. reckon i overreacted just a little.”

“what do you mean?”

“just… i was probably more pissed at myself than you. sure, you’re bloody annoying. but i was attracted to you and i didn’t want to be. it was easy to be angry at you for that.”

roger scoffs incredulously. “look at us being all mature.”

you snort. “does this mean no more two am drum solos?”

roger shakes his head. “any excuse to fuck you over the kitchen table, love.”

“no excuse needed, rog.”

—————


End file.
